Practice Makes Perfect, or Whatever
by therecomemanypaths
Summary: Tina helps Santana. Grudgingly.


A/N: So I wrote this before Rumors aired, which means it isn't really in line with canon but whatever. I might as well post it.

* * *

Tina was grabbing a textbook out of her locker when an unexpected voice came up behind her and said "Hey."

It startled her into dropping her textbook, which landed on her foot. Annoyed, she glared at Santana, who had the nerve to look amused.

"You're a huge klutz," she observed.

"You surprised me," Tina snapped.

"Whatever." Santana bent down to pick up the book. "Look, I need your help."

Tina looked at Santana impassively. After all, her foot really hurt.

Santana shifted from side to side, and Tina saw a flicker of uncertainty on her face before it was replaced with an impatient expression. "I was working on Mr. Scheuster's dumbass assignment and there's a part I'm having trouble with."

Their assignment for the week was to choose a Fleetwood Mac number to perform in front of the club. Granted, Fleetwood Mac was a little dated—surprise, surprise—but aside from that, it wasn't a terrible assignment.

"Which one?"

"Songbird."

Tina raised an eyebrow.

"That's…an interesting choice."

Santana glared at her, so Tina shut her mouth. Still. Songbird? That was like, a really vulnerable song and it didn't really seem like Santana's style.

"I'm having trouble with the piano part. I looked at videos online but they all suck, so…" Her voice trailed off.

Again, Tina just looked at her, and Santana rolled her eyes.

"_So_, I was wondering if you could help me," Santana said slowly. Deliberately, as if she were speaking to someone who wasn't all there.

"Well…gosh, I don't know…"

"_Please_."

Santana didn't really ask it so much as force the word through gritted teeth. Tina laughed and plucked her textbook out of Santana's arms. As she was leaving, she said:

"Yeah, okay. Come by after school? It's not hard to learn so it shouldn't take long."

* * *

At 3 pm, Tina heard a solid knock at the door.

"Mphf…Mike…Santana's here."

"Huh?"

They'd been making out on the couch but she had pulled away when she heard the knock. Mike was now kissing the side of her neck and his hand was wandering down to…_oh_. That was new. And really nice. Tina fell back on the couch and contemplated ignoring the door when she heard:

"Chang, open the door!" _Knock, knock_. "I know you're home! I can see Chang's car and—you know, it's really creepy that you guys have the same last name. I really hope you looked into that before you started hooking up. Open the door!"

Tina rolled her eyes. Mike just looked annoyed but he still reached for his shirt, which had somehow managed to land on top of a lamp on the other side of the room.

"Remind me why you're helping her again?"

"I can't remember." Tina sighed longingly as his chest disappeared under his shirt, and got off the couch. She walked as slowly as she could to the door, and by the time she opened it, Santana looked thoroughly annoyed. Which was fine by her because she wasn't super excited to see her either, at the moment.

"My last name is _Cohen_-Chang."

"Too many syllables. And not as entertaining."

Before Tina could reply, Mike had emerged, tousle haired, from the living room.

" Santana."

" Chang." Santana grinned at Tina, who scowled.

He half waved at Santana and leaned over to give Tina a kiss.

"Don't be mean to my girlfriend!" he warned as he made his way down the steps.

Santana walked inside to the room Mike had just exited. "When am I ever mean?"

Tina snorted as she shut the door.

* * *

In the living room, Santana had pulled out sheet music and appeared to be playing random chords on the piano. Tina settled in besides Santana on the bench.

"Have you practiced at all?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, show me what you can do."

Santana glanced at her and sat a little straighter on the bench, placing her fingers on the keys.

At first, it started out okay. A little stilted but she managed to get through the first few bars without any mishaps. But about a minute in, Santana seemed to get her signals crossed somewhere between her brain and her hands and it fell apart. Santana growled.

"FUCK. _That_ happens. Every time. Fuck this, pianos are for losers, anyway."

"Thanks," Tina commented drily. "You're not so bad, actually. You're left handed, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, fingering with your left hand is just—" Santana cut her off with sudden, raucous laughter.

"Oh my god, what? _Fingering with your left hand?_ Oh shit, I should be a pro, then." And with that, Santana burst into laughter again.

Tina sighed. This was going to take longer than she thought.

* * *

"Good, just keep your wrists relaxed."

"They are."

"They're not, they're totally stiff."

"That sounds dirty. If you want to get in my pants, all you have to do is—FUCK."

* * *

"You're doing great. But watch your rhythm, don't speed up too much."

"I'm trying."

"I'm just saying."

"That's all you've _been_ saying for the last—FUCK."

* * *

"Okay, break." After about half an hour with marginal progress and a pissed off Santana, Tina decided to call time. It was self preservation because otherwise, one of them was going to kill the other.

She was in the kitchen now, taking her sweet time pouring lemonade into two glasses. She could've sworn that she'd seen steam coming out of Santana's ears, and if the girl was going to explode, Tina wanted to be a safe distance away.

Tina walked slowly towards the living room, peeking gingerly around the corner to make sure it was safe, and—

She'd never seen Santana look like this. Sure, she'd caught rare glimpses in the choir room when she let her mask slip for a second, but this was new. Her eyes looked wide and wet and empty, and her arms dangled uselessly by her sides.

Tina coughed deliberately, and watched as Santana shifted immediately, crossing her arms in front of her chest and arranging a practiced scowl on her face.

"I got us some lemonade." Tina said, carefully.

"Did you spike it?" Santana looked hopeful.

"Only with roofies," Tina said as she handed the glass to her.

Santana snorted and took a sip before she put the glass down on the end table next to her.

"Look, thanks for helping me with the song but clearly it's not gonna happen, so—"

"Nope. Sorry, not hearing it."

Santana raised an eyebrow at her, but it was hard for her to look intimidating when all Tina could see was the girl she'd been just minutes before, broken and staring into emptiness.

"Anytime I wanted to give up on a piece, my instructor would always say 'You think this is hard? Try being in labor for thirty-eight hours, that's hard.' So annoying."

Santana laughed half-heartedly. "Was your instructor related to Sue Sylvester, by any chance?"

Tina nudged her with her hip. "Come on, we're not done yet."

* * *

Two hours later and Santana was able to get through the whole song, albeit a little clumsily. Tina smiled, inordinately pleased.

"I have to say, I'm a fantastic teacher."

"And _super_ modest," Santana said, rolling her eyes.

"You're really making good progress, though." Tina smiled. "Just practice it over and over again until the movements are automatic and you'll be fine."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

Santana grabbed her sheet music and her purse, and was halfway out the room before Tina called out to her. Santana turned around, and before Tina could really think about whether or not she was risking a death wish, she heard herself say:

"She'll love it, Santana."

And there was that mask, slipping again. Tina saw a flash of desperation before Santana pressed her lips together and nodded once, wordlessly. Then she was out the door.


End file.
